Page 13 of The Dreaming Beauty
Tansy did not blame him for postponing his visit. The dowager was a frightening and strange woman. As they retraced their steps, Tansy tried to recall the dream in which she had seen the dowager. Clarity came in a rush. It was in the same dream as when she had seen Rose Cottage. Her mother had held Tansy’s hand while they had faced the dowager.
The dowager’s hair had been down just as it had been a moment ago. No one else had been around, but they had stood right in front of Rose Cottage. Tansy had been frightened by the woman and had hidden behind her mother’s skirts. It was the cottage that had stolen her focus because, in her dreams, it had been a place of solace and joy. She had forgotten all about the part of her dream with the dark-haired stranger until now, but after seeing the dowager in real life, Tansy would never forget it again.
Chapter 7
“Be good while I’m away.”
Marcus tossed in his bed, his eyes tightening as he searched for the man whose voice haunted him. Finally, the man appeared, and Marcus calmed in his presence. He strained to see the man’s face, but like always, it was a gray blur.
Large masculine arms encircled Marcus, drawing him into the man’s legs. Marcus reached to pull the man down to where he could see the man’s face, but his young arms weren’t strong enough.
The man tried to extricate himself, but Marcus held tighter, clinging with all his strength.
“It’s time for me to go,” the man said.
“Don’t leave me,” Marcus pleaded, his voice high and strange.
His mother reached for him and pried his fingers off the man’s legs.
Marcus pushed her away, but it was too late; the man had already mounted his horse and prodded it into a canter.
Fear, irrational and overwhelming, erupted inside Marcus. He didn’t know where the man was going, but Marcus knew he’d never be coming back. He chased after the man, but the horse’s legs were much longer and faster. His mother called him back, but he ignored her, running until his legs ached. He didn’t know the man’s face, but he wanted to be with him more than anything in the entire world.
Marcus woke with a start, his breathing rapid. The familiar ache is his chest lingered from the dream. He rolled over in bed, and one of his legs cramped. Some dreams were too real to ignore. This one he’d had many, many times since childhood. It seemed reasonable to think the man was his father, but his father had died shortly after his birth. As for Simon’s father, the stepfather Marcus couldn’t remember—he rubbed his hand over his eyes—that man couldn’t have made such a lasting impression. Marcus had barely been three when his stepfather was killed and had known him for only a few short months, most of which he assumed had been spent in the nursery with Simon.
In his search for answers, Marcus had discovered a brother to his own father, but the man had had a falling-out with his family in his early twenties and had not been seen or heard from since. As for a family friend, his family’s position in Society meant they were well-connected, and Marcus could only guess at who such a person could be.
He massaged his calf muscle until it relaxed, then swung his legs over the side of his bed. A thought chased away the frustration of having holes in his memories. He was seeing Miss Tansy White today. Perhaps this would be the interview that would bring new light to his dream research. If his nightmares could be put to rest, then his years of study would be worthwhile. Of course, it wasn’t wholly selfish if the knowledge he gained could contribute to Society.
He mused about Simon as he pulled on the bell to alert his valet. Not everyone could be the first son of a baron and be lucky enough to inherit first that title from his father, Lord Woodsworth, and then a dukedom from a distant relative, His Grace, the ninth Duke of Westmorland. Even with such luck, Simon cared little about his duty. Marcus was different. He did care—about people, about the land, about his country. He cared much, much more than he should. Though he wished to contribute in some way, he had a feeling it would not be through his never-ending, seemingly useless study of dreams.
He crossed to the water basin but paused as he picked up the pitcher. It had been used to dampen the cloths to stop Miss Tansy’s fever. She was not an easy woman to forget, asleep or awake. She carefully weighed his words as if making a study of his character but then veiled her thoughts so he could not do the same with her. Shaking his head, he poured the water into the basin and splashed the cold liquid onto his face, attempting to wash away from his mind both Tansy’s image and his frustrations with himself.
He turned to his closet. How should he dress for the interview? Tansy’s gown had been simple, and Rose Cottage was not in the best condition. Dressing too nicely would likely make her and her aunts uncomfortable. Presentation was a subtle thing, but he’d learned that no small thing was worth overlooking.
When his valet came in carrying the freshly polished hessians Simon had gifted him, Marcus held up his hand. “My plain black riding boots, if you please.”
“Are you going out today?” Mr. Baxter said.
“Yes, I plan to ride out to the dower house first. Her Royal Highness might not answer the door for me or anyone else, but someone must ensure her needs are met.” The old widow was a strange creature, but she was as much a constant feature to Ashbury Court as the house itself. “I also heard a few trees came down in the storm at the Kemps’.” If he wasn’t dressing up for his interview, he might as well aid Simon’s tenants first.
“I am sorry to hear that, sir.”
“We both know Mrs. Kemp isn’t capable of tending to them. I will stop by there as well.” He purposely left off the part about visiting Miss Tansy White afterward. No reason to start the rumor mill going on the slight chance Mr. Baxter casually shared Marcus’s plans.
“Forgive me, sir,” Mr. Baxter said, “but since Miss Bellvue and her mother call on you every Monday, would you like me to send your excuses to save them the trip?”
“I had forgotten about that.” Marcus might make friends easily, but he had made a concerted effort the last year to keep his interactions to a minimum to provide more time for his research. Miss Bellvue and her mother, unfortunately, did not take his hints and were relentless in their efforts to see him. However, today his excuse of absence could not be helped, just as before, when he was needed in London. “Yes, send a note to the Bellvues, please.”
“Very good, sir.” His valet opened the closet and began selecting Marcus’s clothes.
A half hour later he was finished with breakfast and on his way. It was an easy ride to the dower house since it sat on the back of the estate—a cottage nearly hidden by trees and heavy with shadows. With a quick walking tour of the perimeter, he assessed the property, determining all was in order. Once in the front of the cottage, he stopped and knocked on the door. Mr. Treaver answered.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Taylor?” For a butler living in the country and in seclusion, the man was dressed far more formally than a butler ought to be, in Marcus’s opinion. Mr. Treaver and his wife saw to all the dowager’s needs, although by the way he kept the door partly shut, it seemed their primary duty was to keep the dowager’s privacy.
“I stopped by to see how the house weathered the storm.”
“It was loud but uneventful, sir.” Mr. Treaver’s voice was a monotone, his expression severe.
